


Underwater Sermon

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [70]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Animal Death, Blood and Injury, Gen, Implied Relationships, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Return of Them Update, Underwater, headcanons galore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:22:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25676542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Summary: The seas of the Constant have grown vastly more complex after the moon had shattered and crashed and burned into them. While the surface was far from easy to explore, the world under the waves pose an entirely new and unseen threat.And someone had to explore them eventually.
Series: DS Extras [70]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/688443
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23





	1. Typical

"Higgsbury, this is the stupidest idea you've ever had."

"No comments from the peanut gallery. And anyway, Webber thinks this is a great idea."

"Yeah!"

"Webber is a child and has no understanding of how dangerous this is."

"We know what danger is, Mister Maxwell! Mister Wilson said he'd be fine!"

"See? Webber believes in me, why don't you?"

It was said in a joking manner, but Maxwell gave him a big fat frown for the comment, pointedly eyeing the suit as Wilson continued to strap it on. Webber hopped about, reaching to twist and turn all the knobs and tighten bolts, going tiptoe to reach the further ones on his back. It wasn't quite a perfect fit, but Wilson has done a few modifications so at least it wasn't too much of an issue. Nothing that should cause him problems down in the water, especially after test running it in a pond. Who knew those small puddles were so damn deep?

"I'll be fine, don't worry. This'll help us explore the ocean better, and don't you want to know what's down there?"

"Not particularly." 

Maxwell stood off to the side, arms crossed and being remarkably unhelpful as the boat slowly swayed too and fro. At a standstill, sail and anchor up and waves calm, no obstructions around, no boulders or pillars of salt, only the main island a few miles away from here and the water not even that deep as of yet. Not the dark of deep ocean, only swirled light blues and greens, safe enough for a bit of experimenting.

An expedition was what it really should be called, but Wilson wanted to attribute this whole thing as a quest for more Science! It was the best way to describe to Webber how much he actually wanted to know if anything useful was on the seafloor, especially after the water levels have risen. 

Hooking on a last clinch to his waist, the added weight still taking him a bit of time to get used to, Wilson carefully picked up the massive helmet that went along with the set.

He hadn't actually made this thing himself, though whatever changes he did do certainly helped. The kids had been scouring the new washed up beaches and had spotted the crate, opening it up before telling any adults what, exactly, they were up to. The diving suit itself was a bit worn, and some of the molding fabrics had to be replaced, but all the metal was still unrusted, the joints and sockets still moved good, and the hose and crank for airflow worked spectacularly. 

Wilson had been particularly excited at the discovery, and a bit confused but he played that off. Unusual things seemed to slip into the Constant on a daily basis, and he was rather used to it by now. If a crate with an old French made diving suit washed up ashore one day, he wasn't the one to waste it.

"Webber, can you get me the hose?" Wilson gestured over to where they had set up the device, simple and yet very important for keeping the air flowing. Someone was going to have to keep moving the lever while he was down there, but with the two left up here Wilson trusted it would work out. "And this will work just fine, Maxwell, you'll see. Think of the discoveries I'll make, what we can pick up down there!"

As Webber coiled up the hose in their arms, trailing it behind them with some give as they brought it back over, Maxwell had shuffled a bit closer, still looking displeased and scowling all the while.

"And if it doesn't work? Even I don't quite know what may be lurking down there, pal, especially after the waters have risen; I don't think you are as prepared as you should be, Higgsbury."

"Don't worry, I thought of everything." With that Wilson shuffled a moment, leaned forward in the heavy suit and allowed the other man a glimpse of what he had around his neck underneath the metal and fabric. The Life Amulet glowed faintly, a slow warm pulse against his chest, and it was Wilsons insurance.

Still, Maxwell did not look entirely too convinced. 

Webber handed off the hose, and then scrambled to finish off setting the pigskin sack on his back. That was to hold any samples Wilson would want to bring back, and he carefully tested his balance, the boat rocking gently as he took a few steps and stretched his legs. The helmet in his hands was going to be a different issue, what with its vision being a bit cut up. The holes were spaced just right, but it would be rather dark.

As he firmly attached the leathery hose to one of the portholes, the very back and tilted upwards, Wilson made sure to check on the other bits of equipment he had attached to the heavy metal and glass model.

The makeshift lantern and miner hat creation made the suit heavier, and while Wilson didn't plan to stay down there all day he wanted to make sure he'd be able to see. No fireflies in the thick glass though; the lightbulbs might not last half as long, but the bugs needed airflow and he wasn't willing to waste time and energy on that sort of adjustment. The bottles and jars, smaller bags and even the assortment of minimized net prototypes were looped on the large and heavy band that clamped much of the fabric together, and those will help make this hopefully not take too long either.

The expedition wasn't on a time crunch or anything, but...Wickerbottom had no idea that this is what they were doing instead of fishing to stock up food supplies. This ensured Webber would be around to help Maxwell if anything went wrong.

Wilson might have considered asking any of the other adult survivors, but no one really got along with the old man and he didn't want to risk compromising anything. He'd rather not suffocate because an argument broke out on the boat and someone forgot to keep the air flowing.

And, Webber got along just fine with the old former king. The kid seemed to like him, so no bad blood there.

"Wilson."

The use of his first name got his attention, Wilson looking up at the other man as he finished fixing up the hose. Maxwell spoke quietly, and his pitch black eyes were dull, distracted, and for once Wilson could actually pinpoint the worry lines that were dragging on the old man's face. 

"This is a foolish idea. I have little clue on what, exactly, you will see down there, but..." Maxwell moved, the rocking of the boat slow and at ease, and there was a hinted frown falling on his own face but Wilson bit his tongue and kept himself from interrupting, letting the older man slip the helmet from his hands and hold it still for a moment as he continued to speak. "I suppose there is no stopping you when you have a plan in your head."

Wilson waited, keeping his own words to himself as Maxwell finally made eye contact with him, dark shiny eyes and a deepening wavering frown. The old man looked dead serious.

"Do be careful, down there. That is all I ask."

For a moment silence held, besides the lapping of the waves and the creaking of the wooden boards.

And then Webber chirped up, right behind Wilson as they waved their limbs all about.

"Yeah, Mister Wilson! Be careful, cause we don't want any ocean monster to eat you up! That'll be bad, really bad!"

They twittered as Wilson glanced over to them, the spider child hopping around him and wiggling their mandibles as they looked back and forth between the two men. 

Wilson opened his mouth to answer back, reassure everyone even as a faint tinge of cold worry started to nag its way into his chest, but then there was a rush of air and a loud echo of a 'thwump' as the helmet landed snug over his head.

Maxwells hands pulled around when Wilson raised his own heavy gloved ones, reaching up to make sure everything was connected as he adjusted to the offset weight, and sound was now cut off, heavily muffled and warped in this bowl of metal and glass. There was a loud resounding 'click!' as Wilson was shaken a moment, waving his arms as he squinted through the holes and realized Maxwell had fully secured the helmet on now with a twist of his hands.

He could hear the rough garbling of Webber beside him, but their voice was too echoed and layered to understand. Through the holes he saw flashes of them, black bristly fur and waving mandibles, spiky limbs, asking a question it looked like, and then there was Maxwell's grumpy, worried wrinkled face as he answered back.

"He has a life amulet, dear, he will be fine."

Even that was muffled, so very quiet, but Wilson waved his arms out and the two backed up a few steps, let him slowly stomp his way about as he got his footing. The boat rocked under his feet, but it was as solid as the diving suit and only a few waves sloshed over the sides.

The prompted some muffled grumbling from Maxwell, Wilson turning around to watch Webber puff up their fur and shake off the salt water droplets. The suit itself wasn't the warmest, but it'll heat up with his movements and his breath, which actually reminded him-

Waving a hand in the vaguely right direction, Wilson watched as Webber perked up, limbs all waving about, before Maxwell got the hint and shuffled his way over to the crank. The boat dipped as the older man sat down, the wooden stool bolted to the boat like the rest of the larger tools and the chest, and even though he couldn't hear it Wilson could see the scowl form on Maxwells face as he started to turn the air pump, grumbling all the while.

Even still above sea level the air was a bit stagnant. Breathable, but not necessarily a comfort.

Wilson mentally marked that down, taking a deep, steadying breath as he finally stomped his slow way over to the edge. The plank wasn't set out, the suits weight may just snap that in half, but small waves lapped at the wood, briefly breaching overtop and dousing the bottom of his heavy boots, and Wilson stared down into the unclear waters below.

There was a fair bit of chirping behind him, muffled and incomprehensible, but a glance behind showed Webber with their fur all bristled up, spidery smile and twitching limbs as they gave him a wave.

A nervous grin pulled at his own face as Wilson raised a hand as well, his two companions watching him as he prepared himself, Webber waving with a confident surety on their face and Maxwell glowering as he worked the hand pump, even if worry lines still dragged at his face.

Wilson turned back, straightening up and staring down the water, confidence boosted.

"For Science!"

With the echo of his own voice in his ears, Wilson rose up one heavy boot and stepped off the boat.

***

Webber watched as the splash of water doused over the boats deck, waves pushing and tugging the ship into a rock, their fur bristling up and making them near comically poofy as they held their breath.

Then they skittered over to the edge, crouching on their knees to look into the waters that Mister Wilson had disappeared into. The hose continued to slither past them, long and coiling as it trailed behind their science friend, but even with eight eyes they couldn't see nothing besides watery colors down there.

Mister Wilson has gone diving, and now it was only them and Mister Maxwell.

Who, as they sat up, limbs and mandibles twitching as they glanced back, was still looking quite grumpy about this whole experiment.

"Mister Wilson will be okay!" They twittered, watching as Mister Maxwells shiny black eyes blinked at them, scowly and moody looking. Even if he looked angry, there were a lot more wrinkles on his face than normal, so Webbers voice got a bit softer, pitching in a chirp. "Right, Mister Maxwell?"

"...He'll be fine. Higgsbury knows what he's doing, most of the time." He waved off the concern in their voice, only the sounds of the waves and the soft squeak of the crank in the quiet of the ocean, before he cleared his throat, straightening up on the wooden stool. "Now, how about you get to that fishing that we were meant to be doing, hm? Perhaps by the time that fool realizes there's nothing down there and comes back up we'll have a nice bounty of fish to make up for it."

"Okay, Mister Maxwell!" Webber whistled, hooting spider sound as they scrambled up to their feet and made their way over to the chest of supplies. 

As they dug for the fishing rod, they briefly tilted their head at finding a folded note packed tight with everything else. Pulling it out, they were able to squint all their eyes and read a bit of Mister Wilson's handwriting, all scratchy and crooked.

**IMPORTANT:  
_'Communication between Boat and Diver'  
-Via tugging of the Air Hose in Numbered Sequences-_**

**_1 - All is well / Yes  
2 - All is not well / No  
3 - Found something interesting  
4 - Found something interesting and dangerous  
5 - Found something that bit me  
6 - Found something that is not biting me and seems friendly  
7 - Pay attention to the hose!  
8 - Something very interesting is happening.  
9 - The hose is being blocked!  
10 - I am having difficulty breathing!  
11 - There is nothing down here  
12 - There are many things down here!  
-_ **

And on it went, Webber's mandibles twitching as they mouthed the words silently, going down the long, long list of scribbled numbers and sentences, each getting more and more rambled until their eyes landed upon the last one.

_**50 - If I'm tugging the hose this much then either I found something incredible or I am in horrible danger and possibly suffocating. Better pull me up, just in case.** _

"Mister Maxwell!" Webber held up the paper, spider limbs waving about as they chittered and chirped as loud as they could, all eight eyes darting straight to the older man. "We found Mister Wilson's instructions! They seem kinda important!"

Maxwell blinked over at them, still turning the crank for the hose, and even though it's only been a few minutes Webber could tell he was real bored, hunched over and having his knees drawn up high cause of the stools height, his free arm resting elbow against his knee, palm at his cheek and looking sort of zoned out.

Webber's voice seemed to break him out of it, or at least a bit, and he straightened up and squinted at them and the paper they were holding up, the cranks turning uninterrupted the entire time.

"I've read them already, or as much as I could stomach anyhow. Most of it is about the cranking of the hose, the rest just rambling for the sake of rambling." The old man shook his head and he looked tired now, a bit exasperated even, but his tone was still even as he gestured with his free hand to Webber. "It's no use to you, dear, so put it back and leave it be."

Webber clicked deep in their throat, all eyes turning and blinking out of sync at the paper and its scribbled marks as they held it out before them, and their voice scratched and chirped out of them as they tilted their head.

"Are you _sure_ , Mister Maxwell? It says 'Important' at the top, in big, scary letters!"

"Yes I am sure. Put it back and get to catching something edible; I'd rather we had _something_ to show for our efforts out here before noon at the very latest."

Webber trilled a low exhale, limbs curling and itching through their salt tangled fur, the cold ocean air making their next inhale a bit bigger and heavy; if they concentrated, they'd smell fish out here, and seaweed! But they did nod when the older man side eyed them, turning in one smooth motion and hopping back to the chest. The hinges creaked when they forced it open again, salt laden and sorta rusty, but they carefully folded the paper up in a crooked little triangle and set it inside, by the sail repair sewing kits and the boat patches. In the other corner they scooped up their fishing rod; this one was specifically theirs, with notched arachnid designs and hints of spider webbing still glittering to the handle, as well as the grand spool of silk that went up and then hung down with that small little hook at the end. They had to dig around for a float and lure, spider paws grasping the little hardened cone bobber and the sort of heavy, funny looking lure, the one for _really_ big fish.

There were a few others in there, but those were for emergencies. These ones Mister Wilson had made specifically for them to use, so use them Webber will!

Twisting the fishing rod around, extra limbs extending and then helping balancing it so that the hook wouldn't catch in their fur, Webber clicked and clacked and twittered to themself as they worked on putting on the bait and tackle, like how Mister Wilson had shown them.

They hadn't known at first that Mister Wilson liked fishing! Or, maybe he just liked the sea and fish in general? Cause you can't really _fish_ when deep underwater…

Aa they finished up with their bob, holding the thick silk that tied everything together as well as to keep the hook from getting them when they moved, Webber turned to look at the spot where Mister Wilson had dived. The long curling hose was still dropping, scraping against the wooden boats planks and uncoiling from where it was all rolled up, and Mister Maxwell still sat, a bored, zoned out look on his face as the crank kept turning and the air kept flowing.

They took on a deep breath of sea salty air, limbs twitching and mandibles waving, before Webber straightened their shoulders and nodded to themself, fishing rod in hand and ready to go.

They'll catch lots and lots of fish, and give Mister Wilson a whole bunch once he came back up here after exploring. Then, Webber knew, Miss Wickerbottom won't yell at them for anything since they did say they were going out just to fish and nothing else.

Webber will do a real good job, just wait and see! 

All set to go and newfound confidence for today, Webber circled around the closed chest-

And proceeded to hop up on top of it, getting their fishing rod ready as they settled, kicking their legs idly about.

Time to fish!

***

Maybe he should have dived back near the shore.

Falling through the water, heavy suit taking him down at a steady pace, Wilson focused on calming his breathing, in and out, in and out. The feeling of the salt water all around him, different from the pond experiment, was a bit claustrophobic inducing, and it pressed in and slid atop the thick waterproof fabrics. The air he breathed in was already turning cold, still rather stale but at least he wasn't sweating yet, and Wilson fought his building nerves as the world outside his helmet floated in a unmarked blue and green haze, the endless free fall as his sense of direction went a bit skewed.

..He hadn't miscalculated, right? These were the shallows, and while no one has explored the bottom as of yet he was very, very certain that there was definitely a sea floor out here and not some endless void. They've seen the dark outcrops from topside, even fished up whole chests and chunks of coral strewn rock, and those sea stacks and salt formations had to be anchored _somewhere._

Still, falling through a pale teal world, only the muted sound of water rushing by him and the faint drifts of near microscopic debris drifting past the glass lens of his helmet, it made his breathing pick up a bit as Wilson watched and waited.

He had specifically extended the hose coil just for the circumstances that he ended up in far deeper waters than the length allowed, and he shouldn't even be close to the halfway point by now. It was getting hard to pinpoint the passing of time, with only the barren emptiness of vast amounts of salt water surrounding him, and Wilson-

-didn't even catch sight of the ground before he landed.

He almost fell over from the force, legs bending as the full weight of water hit him and the suit strained as he took a step forward, leaning heavily and taking deep breaths, shocked the nerves right out of him from the suddenness. The descent had taken a good long time, longer than he was comfortable with, but it was not dark.

Sand stretched out below him, shifting and drifting in faint ocean breezes before settling from his disturbance, rolled in little soft waves and textured with no other marks, no footprints or hints of life. When Wilson lifted his head, the light from above flickering through the many glass holes spaced apart through the helmet, that teal endlessness met his sights. 

Moving was a bit harder here than in the ponds, but not as restrictive; he found that standing straight and using his arms as counterbalance to his steps helped keep him steady, while the early experiments were obstructed by the narrow pond walls and heavy floral life that choked up the bottom of the smaller water sources.

Compared to those, this place was vast, empty, and lifeless.

Sand kicked up at his every step, and now Wilson was cursing the helmet's make; he could see, yes, but it felt so constrictive, the darkness around his head and only these small spaced holes for his eyes to see through. Maybe he should have just overhauled the entire design and made his own entirely from scratch.

But this is what he had now, his deal in the share of things, and Wilson took steady, even breaths, the hose hanging stable behind him and rising far, far upwards, to the point where it disappeared in the blue green murk, and he focused himself on task.

There wasn't much to see so far, but he could take a few samples.

He's only take a few steps from his landing point, heavy, awkward steps as he learned his stride, but Wilson slowly came to a halt and made an attempt at bending down. It became a stiff crouch, the heavy suit not quite bending as much and even less flexible than he had thought it would be, but the worst part was attempting to find the tools that hung off the suit itself.

Palming at his sides, the waist of the suit, Wilson finally got his hands on what he hoped was one of the smaller jars. Its stopper was perfectly suited for the suits thick gloves; the glass had originally been made for WX78s hands, after all. 

Once propped open, Wilson carefully leaned over and scooped up a handful of the whitened sand before him, coating and glittering atop the suit's thick gloves. It took a bit of maneuvering, and he was sure much of it spilled, but eventually he finally slid a suitable amount of the sand sample into the jar, stopping it up and then hauling himself back upright.

The sand still clinging to his glove Wilson rose it up to eye level, looking over it as critically as he could with this much glass and metal between him and the sample. 

It all looked perfectly normal, pale grains that the light rays above danced upon in the watery refractions, not a trace of shell substrate or plant matter mixed within.

The sand here was completely barren of life.

Heaving a sigh, barely noting that he was getting used to the stale air by now, Wilson let the sand slip from his hand, back down to join with the rest of these empty plains. Perhaps Maxwell had been right, and the sea floor was completely barren.

It didn't make any sense, but sometimes...sometimes the Constant made no sense. It was damnably frustrating, to know and be _forced_ to accept this fact.

Shaking his head within the helmet, Wilson raised his gaze, straightened himself back up and set his eyes about with a new determination.

Not everything had to make sense, but there had to be an explanation out here, or maybe he was just in an empty plot of sea land. Maybe he had just chosen the wrong place to start off on.

Because Wilson wasn't going to give up that easily, no way in hell. There were too many fish in the sea, too much life to just have it be coated in this soft sand. There was more out here, and he will find it!

Setting his shoulders, Wilson started walking in the general direction of….he checked the compass tied securely to the arm of the suit, squinted his eyes against the water distortion as he got his barings, and there, he was starting off to the Northwest.

With another nod, careful to not knock his head against the helmet's insides, not all of it was as securely padded as he had wished in favor of keeping a higher visibility, Wilson set off atop the oceans sea salty floor, a feat no one else has ever accomplished and one he was not so secretly rather proud of himself for.

If he got all that he hoped for down here and more, no one at camp was going to hear the end of it! 

Wilson P. Higgsbury, gentleman scientist and first man to walk the Constants sea floor!

...Certainly had a nice ring to it, he thought.


	2. Topical

Maxwell watched as the hose finally came to a stop, the last coils unfurling in a pause before slipping off to disappear into the waters, slack and hanging limp. The rest of the length must be trailing on the bottom of the ocean now, enough so that any worry of it was not on either his or Webber's shoulders to take care of.

The waves were small, the deck drying from when Wilson had dived earlier, but it still smelled heavily of salt water.

And fish, now that Webber was having a bit of good luck. The tin bin set up in between the chest and sail was already seeing its first few occupants, mostly Runty Guppies and Smolt Fry, and even a singular Mudfish, which had sent Webber leaping over to Maxwell to show it off, chittering up a storm in excitement. 

They didn't do much deep sea fishing, didn't seem to accompany the others out on long voyages, so catching anything bigger than the smaller fishs near the coastline was a rather big deal to them. Maxwell supposed, after giving the ugly Mudfish a good look, just to humor the kid, that there probably was a reason why Webber didn't go sailing often.

Already their fur was stuck up in greasy bristles, the sea salt and chill blowing winds making them look more vagabondish than usual, but they grinned a spider tugging grin up at him, chirped and twittered on about the fish as their extra limbs rose up the fishing rods string, using their clawed spider paws to poke and then carefully pet over the line of spines on its back. The smell of it was already permeating the air in a thick fishy cloud, so Maxwell made a passing remark on the nature of how a fish suffocates in open air and that quickly got Webber racing over and dumping the Mudfish into the bin with a shallow splash and worry etched all over their face.

At least there was a light breeze going. It made the rocking of the boat slightly more pronounced, but the fish scent was blown out over the waves and Maxwell was glad for the singular comfort it gave.

Since he had to sit here, on a crooked wooden stool of vastly uncomfortably hard make, and keep winding the crank beside him. Already his arm was starting to ache, and he dreaded switching sides, trying to find a better position for himself while doing this for however long it took for the ships diver to get finished bumbling around underwater and back up here. When he had first agreed to this he hadn't thought it would be as...mind numbingly boring as it was, nor as tiring. 

All he had to do was sit here, in the middle of vast miles of open ocean, and turn a handle.

Wilson had not thought to tell him a timeframe, other than "getting back before evening". Maxwell may as well be out here, sitting and cranking, for _hours._

He was not happy about this realization.

Webber was gearing up their fishing rod again, preparing to cast it, and the only sounds atop the sea were the slow slosh of the waves, the muted creaking of the boat as it rocked, and the spider childs low chitters and chirps. Oh, and the faint splashing from the fish bin, and Maxwell turned a narrow frown over to it.

Just faintly, right over the brim, he could see the spines of the Mudfish as it wiggled near the surface, raising and falling, the hint of a tail fin or scaly back from the smaller fish, before they all lowered and disappeared from the top. It wasn't a large bin, but he's seen it before when packed tight in. Even brimming full wouldn't be a good enough reward for him having to work his arms off over here.

Slowly, almost escaping his notice, the small waves started to slosh about a bit more. There was a hint of unsteadiness that shifted the boat, and Maxwell straightened up when he realized that they were moving. There was no wind, nothing but the faint breeze, and while the anchor wasn't down neither was the sail, keeping them at a shallow standstill that was now changing.

The hose line, previously slack, had tightened up a bit, just a hint of strain from where it was attached to the crank itself, threaded through hooks that had been built days ago for this purpose, and Maxwell blinked at it as the boat rocked and drifted through the waters. Wilson must have picked up the slack and gotten moving.

Well, at least that was assurance enough that he had gotten to the bottom safe. There still was the faint nagging worry, what if Wilson didn't, what if something had gotten its jaws around him and was dragging him away-

But Maxwell banished the foreboding vision, took a steadying breath of air as Webber whistled and kicked their legs atop the chest, noticing that their bobber was dragging behind the boat now as the waves rolled them onwards. Squishing down the worry with irritation, as well as focusing on the ache already blooming in the joints of his arm and wrist, Maxwell relaxed back upon the stool as best as he could with a strained sigh.

This entire plan was a terrible idea, and yet no one listened to him when he said so. The sailing was just fine, no one needed to go _under_ the water, everything anyone needed was on the surface and just took some time to get to, that was all. Diving into the depths where no one knew _anything_ at all about the environment was incredibly dangerous, risky, and a huge waste of time.

Maxwell should know; his knowledge of the tropical islands far outweighed this new ocean landscape, but even he knew how bad the deep sea could be in those shipwreck laden waters. For all the warmth and humidity that greatly opposed where he was now, the things that grew in those depths were only brief snatching sights when atop tropical waves.

He made most of them, after all. No Quaken should be able to survive in these cold waters, not even in the heat waves of summer, but at the very least Maxwell _knew_ what he had put out there.

This was entirely new to him, and the fear of the unknown, while not too drastic as of yet, had him nervous about this entire plan. 

Wilson, however, had not been fazed. Never during these entire past few weeks of the man working on the suit, planning out the path he wished to tread, getting the boat set and making Webber more and more excited with the secret idea, never had Wilson P. Higgsbury shown even a sign of hesitance or worry.

And no damn rational caution either, just plain curiosity. It was enough for Maxwell to tell him, very bluntly, that he was going to get himself killed.

And Wilson had laughed, told him not to worry, he knew what he was doing and he was prepared. 

Well, so far the other man's plan must be working out. Nothing up here but him working his arm off and Webber idly fishing, patches of bull kelp drifting past them about the waves and the giant sea stacks looming out in the distance-

Wait a minute.

"Webber, can you come here for a second?"

The spider child jolted up from unwinding their fishing line, must have heard the tense tone that had crept into his voice, but Maxwell only had eyes on the slowly approaching rocky masses. There was a certain level of fog rolling in as well, especially in this direction, and internally Maxwell cursed Wilson for having decided that they _had_ to travel this way. Of course the man would head _in_ the direction of sea stacks and foggy waters, not the abundant emptiness of shallow coastal waves behind them, back towards the mainland.

If they had gone back, then it would have made it much easier if a real emergency happened. Swimming in the ocean was incredibly dangerous and usually ended badly, but sometimes if one was quick enough there were a few extra seconds in between falling overboard and the shadows curling upwards to entangle and drown whoever was caught.

Then again, not everyone knew how to swim out here. One of the very good reasons Wilson had not let Wendy come along, to both her and Webber's disappointment. 

When Webber had gotten their fishing rod set to the side, hopping over and looking back and forth between him and the encroaching rocky outcrops, all eyes wide and clicking going quiet, Maxwell laboriously got himself into a stand, still trying to keep a hold to the crank even as his knees threatened to lock up.

Next time he was going to insist that an actual chair be made, not some crooked excuse for a stool. With how dangerous the ocean surface can be him having issues moving about will put them at a disadvantage that shouldn't be there in the first place.

Thankfully Webber seemed to pick up on what he wanted without him having to say anything, still trying to steady himself, jaw grit tight and weathering the aches and pains from having sat for so long, too damn long. They quickly took his place, grabbing at the crank and hurriedly spinning it with a bit too much energy even as they twittered and turned their eyes on the more dangerous waters ahead.

"Why's Mister Wilson taking us to the rocks?"

"Because he has nothing better to do than make his exploration more of a pain in the neck for us." His sarcasm was laced with covering bitterness, made sure the kid didn't hear any trace of worry as he straightened his back with a few not so good cracks, finally resting his aching wrist and arm. The sea stacks were getting closer, but the boats actual pace was slow, sliding; if they did end up bumping into one, there wouldn't be much lasting damage, or at least no giant holes. But scratches and bumps can stack up, as he has unfortunately experienced before in boating with the others, and Maxwell did not want to take any risks, shaking his head as he glanced down to Webber. "Slow down a bit, the air will flow as long as it's being turned. Keep an even pace and you won't wear yourself out."

Showing them how to turn the mechanism correctly didn't take long, gloved hands fluttering over their spider paws as Webber finally turned their eyes, or at least most of them, into focusing on what they were doing. It was enough to allow him to turn his efforts elsewhere, and Maxwell gave them a last nod before turning away.

He certainly didn't like the fact that he felt as if he was _hobbling_ about now, damn stool, but moving around always helped untense that familiar position out of him; before he sat down again to take over the crank he was going to need to fix up that stool. 

Or, at least figure out a better position for him to stretch out his legs. Once Wilson got back up here he was going to get an earful of how uncomfortable the boat was for those sitting up here doing nothing for _hours._

He was also going to hear about how _very_ dangerous it was, dragging the boat into deeper waters, towards the farther open ocean. Wasn't their route supposed to avoid the rocks and more dangerous swells?

Either way, Maxwell had a quick look around and found one of the paddles that had been set by the closed sail, one that was a better make than the earlier models. Judging from the signature on the handle, and the much smoother grains and lack of splinters or chips, it was one of the woodman's newer versions. From what Maxwell knew, Woodie had actually helped in the construction of this boat, with Wilson doing a few of the other structures himself, such as the crank and setting up the hose pump.

And, he supposed irritably, it probably had been Wilson who had done the stool. It was lopsided enough.

With the paddle in hand and the sea stacks closing in, Maxwell walked over to the edge that would hit first, small waves of water parting underneath the wooden planks, spits lapping over and drying the sea salt into the grains, faint splashes that landed on his shoes. It made him heave a silent sigh, knowing how bad his suit was going to look after this; windswept and heavily salted, the bonus of stinking of fish. Another thing he was going to complain about to Wilson when he got himself back up here from his stupidly dangerous diving exercise.

The boat's pace didn't slow much, but it wasn't fast enough to give any heavy concern, even when the looming stacks came up to meet them. Enough time to let Maxwell raise the paddle and carefully nudge against the rocks, the lack of accelerated force in the boat letting him easily shift its path away. Pebbles and a few hefty chunks crumbled away under the wood, dropping with plops into the ocean water, but the silence of the sea was thick all about them as the first sea stack was avoided.

The hose would sometimes strain, as Maxwell walked around the edge of the boat and focused his attention to pushing its trajectory away from any nearing rock outcrops, but it continued to move them along all the same. The salt stained stacks rose and passed about them, and the steady creak and squeak of the crank as Webber watched echoed out over the waves, only the faintest murmur of spidery sound, barely audible over the waves now. 

"...What's Mister Wilson doing, Mister Maxwell?"

Maxwell didn't answer right away, had to put some effort into righting the boats path as it just barely scraped by a rather thick set sea stack, but once he did the rocks were thinning around them and he could take a minute to breath, using the paddle as makeshift crutch while making sure he didn't look as if he was using it as such.

"Wandering around an empty expanse, I expect." And hopefully not being bodily dragged deeper to sea by something with far too many teeth and tendrils, but Maxwell did not voice that as his gaze drifted to the parting water that slid underneath the boat's thick wooden platform. The cresting small waves distorted anything that might have been below the surface, darkness layered overtop with lighter teals and blue greens, a subtle hidden quality that made him grit his jaw and focus on keeping his balance as the boat rocked, swayed upon the waves and secret currents. 

There could be anything under there, anything drifting below them, and neither of them would know. The silence surrounding them as another sea stack slowly crept by, well away from scraping them, with only the creaks of the boat and squeaks of the crank lever, only the rocking strain of wood and rope against the waves lapping against them, made for a certain feeling to creep into the air.

It certainly did not make him any less on edge, and Maxwell tore his gaze away from the deep waters, gave himself a shake as to avoid the shiver that had tried to crawl up his spine.

A few straggling sea stacks were all that was left from the crowded rocks behind them, leaving the shallower coastal waters into something a bit deeper, though judging from the color the depth hadn't drastically changed just yet. Maxwell eyed one of the last rocky outcrops, the thick layer of salt and packed wave smoothed rock, and even the hints of what probably were mussels of some sort at the base, just under the surface of the waves before disappearing into the deep colors.

Wilson would've probably wanted a sample of that, had he been up here. Something to do with the slight changes in the ocean they've all noticed by now, and as Maxwell knew by now the chef was particularly good with seafood dishes.

Another weathered sigh escaped him, but either way Maxwell made his way over and stuck the paddle out at the base of the sea stack. Their slow pace helped, and he did have to wiggle the damn thing a moment, but something tore off by the time they passed by and when Maxwell carefully dragged the paddle back up there certainly was some sort of growth clinging to the end.

"What'd you get, Mister Maxwell?"

"Barnacles, I think." Maxwell examined the hard shelled looking things, not quite willing to touch them yet as they seemed to move in a very subtle, breathing like manner, before he shook his head and walked over to the tin of fish, dumping them in. "I suppose we can give them to Warly when we get back."

"Ooo, and he'll make something yummy with all our fish!" Webber twittered excitedly as Maxwell set the paddle back against the sail. "But not our big fishy, right? We don't wanna eat 'im!"

"It will start stinking, Webber."

"We'll take good care of him, we promise Mister Maxwell!" Webber was giving him a very sincere look, all white eyes open wide and limbs raised, salt tangled fur puffed up as they chirped and clicked in the back of their throat. "We'll make him his own fishbowl and feed him everyday and clean him and play with him and-"

"Fine, fine. Just make sure it doesn't stink and we'll have a deal." Maxwell rubbed his face, frowned at the feeling of salt as he brushed his hand through his hair, he must look very undapper at this point and it was starting to reflect on his already poor mood. "But take it up with Wilson when he gets back up here; he'll have the final say in the matter."

Webber nodded as he came back over to them, twittered a spidery tune as they gave him a spider smile, all mandibles and eyes and bristly limbs, and when he waved them out of his seat they gave up the crank all too readily, hopping back to the chest. 

For a kid like them, this must have been getting rather boring. 

Maxwell didn't waste any time internally bemoaning his fate for these next few hours, and giving up his opportunity to keep standing and pacing was difficult when faced with just sitting here, but it was what he had to do. Someone had to make sure Wilson had airflow, and suffocating at the bottom of the sea was such a deeply unappealing thought that he wouldn't wish it upon anyone, especially not the other man. 

So sit down he must, and Maxwell quietly groaned as he did so, limbs already aching even as he attempted to outstretch his legs, hand already back on the lever and working it in the continual circles that kept the air going through the hose. This was such a horrid idea, and yet here he was anyway, along for the ride as Wilson dragged his feet on the seafloor. 

Well, he wasn't very optimistic on the outcome of all this, but at the very least he hoped Wilson learned _something_ to shut up his naturally irritating curiosity, even if it was as simple as the knowledge of the seafloor being a barren wasteland.

That was the best case scenario, in Maxwell's opinion.

As he unhappily relaxed back down into the monotonous chore, it took a moment to realize that Webber had ran back over to him, hovering and clicking excitedly in the back of their throat and through their whistling mandibles.

They waited for him to acknowledge them, well past his side eyed look and raised brow, up until he had to clear his throat and actually address them.

"Yes, Webber?"

Their salt strewn fur and bristles poofed up, near hopping on their clawed feet, and Webber pulled the thing they had been hiding behind their back to show off to him, clicking and chirping as their roughened voice chittered and chattered.

"The stool kinda hurts to sit on, Mister Maxwell, so we got you a cushion!" 

Blinking in mild confusion, Maxwell fixed the very obviously rolled up rain coat with a hint of surprise. It didn't look like much, messily folded and rolled into a somewhat cushion like look, but it looked far more comfortable than the solid roughness of the stool underneath him.

And, it may not be an actual cushion or as good as a real chair, but it was the thought that counts, wasn't it?

"Er, thank you, Webber." Maxwell held out his free hand and let the spider child plop the offering into his grip, their spidery smile growing even bigger and chirping spider sound in response. "I...I appreciate your thoughtfulness."

That seemed to make their day, and as Maxwell figured out how to get the makeshift cushion underneath him while still turning the crank they zipped off back to the chest, snatching up their fishing rod and scrambling back to their own spot on top. With the bit of fabric between him and the rough, crooked wood there was a hint of relief in his position and posture, just enough to lessen the irritation in his chest.

That, and as he watched Webber was already untangling their fishing line, adjusting the bobber and lure with their extra limbs and twittering to themself in satisfaction, as wind blown and salted as he, though obviously much more excited with the entire trip.

Maxwell sighed, stretched his legs and slowed the pace to ease up on the aching in his wrist, and as the boat continued on in its slow and steady pace he gave the empty sky a passingly idle look.

It could be worse, he supposed. A hint of fishing and a lot of waiting around wasn't too bad, not when compared to what it could be, and Maxwell supposed he shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth.

Worries still cluttered under the surface, of what could be lurking, what Wilson was doing, _how_ he was doing and how safe this all truly was, but Maxwell took in a steady breath, let it out just as steadily, and tried to make himself relax, if only for a short while. 

Webber was so far having a fun time, kicking their legs against the wooden chest and whistling to themself, so he shouldn't dampen the mood with his concerns. 

Just relax, wait, and believe that by evening they'll all be sailing back to the mainland and camp, no one worse for wear. 

***

The light sand had started to get a bit more difficult the more he walked, puffs rising from his every footstep, and Wilson has found that actually moving about in the suit was a whole lot more cumbersome than he had anticipated.

The teal haze of the water all around him compounded a sense of lost direction, though he kept taking quick looks at the compass and he was, in fact, going in the right direction, or at the very least Northwest. The sand shifted, sunk under his feet, and the sheer barren landscape was not encouraging in the slightest.

The thought, of such an expanse, empty and flat and infernally unseeable, was starting to make Wilson second guess himself. If this was all that he'd find down here, sand and nothingness, a blurring foggy mix of blue green that ensured he couldn't take stock of his surroundings in the ways he has grown so familiar in acting when on the surface, then maybe he should have just...thought this whole plan over a bit more.

Calling it quits was the farthest from his mind though, as he slogged forward under the combined weight of the suit and water pressure, every stale breath chilly and making him fight the shivers as he started to sweat from the exertion, but it was becoming more and more apparent that he must have dived at just the wrong place. Next time he'll position the boat better, maybe head out deeper than the coastline, and there was no question in his mind of the possibility of _having_ a next time.

This was an available option, a route he and anyone else can take when walking the Constant, and Wilson _will_ find something to show for it.

Even if the only take away was a singular undiscovered species of fish or sample of seafloor no one has seen or even thought of. 

His thoughts were interrupted when one foot fell a bit deeper than the last, sinking into the sand almost past his ankle, and Wilson pin wheeled his arms in an attempt to keep balance, bending his knees and wobbling for a moment. The water weight made his every movement slowed, made everything he did slow and encumbered, and this self blindness against his usual sense of alertness was rubbing him a bit in the wrong way. 

Frowning as he caught his breath and balance, Wilson looked down through the spaced peepholes of his suit's helmet and carefully took a step back.

The ground sort of slicked up after his foot for a moment before drifting back in a hazy cloud, and even the more packed sand behind him dipped under his weight.

He had to bend down to get a closer look, brow furrowed and eyes scrutinizing the flooring in front of him, but it was obvious that this wasn't pure sand any longer.

It was silt, thick muddy silt, smoothed in even less visible texture from the waves and gapingly disturbed by his intruding presence.

Still no plant life, or any that he could see on the surface level, and Wilson heaved a sigh, straightening back up. His gloved hand did a little 'thwump' when it hit his helmet, the habit of running his hands through his hair not available down here, and another, more strained sigh escaped him as he once again took a look around.

The hazy emptiness surrounding him loomed, and even as he turned his gaze upwards there was no shadow of the boat, no hint of anything out here but him. Besides for the hose, of course, and as Wilson half turned to glance behind him he realized that most of it had fallen into the sand, dangling from the suit's helmet and from where it hung in the blue green expanse above.

Moving laboriously, turning himself about, Wilson had to take a bit to lean over and pick the slack line up, sand grains and clouds of sediment falling from the thick material as he brushed it off. It looked as if the entire coil had fallen from the boat, slid down into the water as he had walked, and Wilson shook his head in exasperation at that. Most of this should have stayed up top, so of course _someone_ up there had to have let it just slip on by and fall in behind him.

At least he had foresight, and Wilson reached behind him, had to sort of struggle for a moment before the suits thick gloves caught on what he was looking for.

The hooks had only taken him a few days of testing to create, sitting up late next to the Think Tank and working out the kinks and ensuring it actually did what he wanted it to do, but eventually with a bit of help from Winona and her steadier hands the rig on the suits back was set up perfectly. Curling the excess hose length through and around some of them made sure they'd keep hooked on and not fall off behind him, but it was loose enough that any simple strong pull will let the line slip off, making sure none of the weight was pulling against his helmet.

He's been extensive in testing that part; Wilson did not like the thought of the hose popping off and leaving him to the crushing ocean depths, thank you very much.

But, as he has now found out, actually putting the hose through the motions all by himself without a second pair of hands really took some effort. Twisting around in slow, shuffling steps, tongue sticking out as he focused as best as he could in where his hands were and how the hose was wrapping, Wilson finally got it latched on and curled up enough as to not drag in the sand. The experience left him a bit dizzy, taking steady breaths and keeping still as the ocean haze started to settle with the clouds of sand and silt he's kicked up.

It was then that he noticed a faint outline in the distance.

Darker than the teal muggy colors, but only a silhouette, a form the suits eye holes only could vaguely piece together in one large shape. It didn't move, didn't make indication of being alive, and Wilson stood there for a few moments more, the suits thick boots sinking into the sand and the silence, only broken by his own breathing, ringing in his ears.

It took a few moments, a hesitant step, before he finally recognized what he was seeing.

The bottom formation of a sea stack.

Raising his hand, glancing to the compass, Wilson could see it was facing the West now, less North than he had planned. Another look around showed him nothing else to catch his eye, nothing but sandy sediment and empty water weight, and Wilson turned his gaze back to the looming rock formation that was just visible through the water fog.

It wouldn't hurt if they went a little bit off track, right?

The slurry of sand and mucky silt made his pace slow, much slower than he would have liked, but Wilson set his sights to the dark wavering mass ahead of him, the suits weight making his every step lumbering now as he fought the very ground. With his eyes turned forward and away, the pinholes of the helmet shimmering the oceans surface light in dark flowing shadows, it took a good few minutes before he realized that the seafloor had changed.

It was actually a bit of drifting sea kelp that finally got his attention.

It hung there, long strands suspended in the water space and completely different from how he was more used to seeing it, limp and wilted and meshed in thick ugly curtains or globs of plant life floating on the surface, and the sunlight that cut in from above made it almost look as if to _glow._

Wilson halted, a heavy swaying back and forth that made the sand under his feet twist and turn in flurry clouds, and he stared at the thing.

Anchored to the seafloor but not just through the sand, no, it was a hunk of weathered looking rock, or perhaps coral? Now that he was looking, he could see more speckled here and there throughout the sand, all about him in trailing fronds, small and most not even reaching his ankle.

Carefully bending, then crouching down, and then finally going into a heavy kneel, Wilson peered down at the kelp strand that was tall enough to reach his eye level. The silt and sand under his gloves bunched up, and underneath more fronds, green and glowing and very, very small, peeked out, speckled across the seafloor ahead of him.

It was apparently, as he looked over the anchoring rock, or more like large pebble, not even half buried with the sand having been swept away from faint currents, that all this was new growth. Scooping up a handful of the sandy mud, Wilsom could see more, bulbs and hints of roots only just barely begun, and after a moment he let the glop slide from his gloved palm back to where it came from.

Looking around, it was still the utter silence of the ocean above him, nothing but his own breath and heartbeat to keep him company. Nothing but now this field of growing bull kelp, or perhaps even more species if he wanted to be more optimistic.

That was enough thought to have him pluck a strand or two from the sand, shake off the left over bits of silt and then, after laboriously getting himself back up into a stand, fumble with the vials and jars before storing the samples away.

New growth wasn't what they harvested up on the surface waters, and these plants must be ages away from getting that big. Looking around, Wilson could only spot a few, one two, a cluster farther out of larger plants; much of this sand was spotted with new shoots.

It made the ground not quite so slippery, not quite collapsing under his next steps either, and Wilson continued to look all about him as he started walking once more, leftover sand grains and silt falling from the suit's knees. 

For all the growth here, there had been none back behind him, and the taller plants were few and far between.

The only logical conclusion to the seafloor in this area, as Wilson walked through it, was that something must graze here. He's taken care of enough beefalo to know what grazed land looked like, but that was…

That was artificial, manmade. If he and the others were taking care of beefalo, for whatever purposes they decide at the time, then they decided where the herd goes and for how long. The plains for the wild herds did not end up looking like the ones he's taken care of or watched over.

This...didn't look natural, or at least didn't to his knowledge. It was just too sparse, and so much new growth that should have been growing at the same time as the larger kelp strands?

Wilson carefully eyed a small cluster as he walked on by; this one didn't have much of an anchor, digging into the sand and then somehow coiling together, faintly drifting side to side in the shallow ocean current.

The silence hung about him as he walked, the water ambience low and dull while his own heartbeat and the soft ringing in his ears hummed on uninterrupted, and as Wilson walked the seafloor more and more of the kelp strands sprung up, coated the ground and yet had enough space for that pale expanse of sand to run in between, and the suit and him slogged on forward. The shadowed silhouette of the sea stack ahead grew closer, the hazy teal deepening into blues, then clearing as he approached, and now more of those stones, small boulders that almost looked to be coral except were certainly not, dotted about as well. The kelp had gotten bigger the closer he approached, and while Wilson didn't have to shove himself through any patches the clumps rose almost to his waist now, trailing behind him from the small currents he kicked up and drifting about as he did his best to sidestep step the plants. 

It was at this point that he finally caught sight of his first fish.

It was small, hovering over near one of the thicker entangled boulders, strewn bull kelp swayling slowly in the wind, and Wilson came to a halt as he peered down at it.

The Bitty Baitfish floated there, small fins twisting in curves as it kept close to the kelp fronds, yellow button eyes bulged as its mouth opened and closed, and it didn't seem to even realize he was there. After a few moments its fins flashed open, as if to stretch, and then twirled around in one smooth move, drifted lower before swimming into the base of the fronds and disappearing from sight.

_Well,_ Wilson thought, hands on the suits bulky hips as the inner ocean breezes drifted by him and through the fronds, _at least the seafloor isn't entirely empty._

It only took a few more minutes for more life to start to appear, come alive around him as he walked through the thick thickets of kelp clusters, still not high enough to obscure his sight but now starting to coat the sandy ground a bit more. Small schools started to appear as he slowed down, and now Wilson didn't just have to watch his step for the kelp but for the fish themselves, drifting about his arms and even circling the length of hose that trailed behind him. Guppys and Frys swam about in small groups, the Needlenose Squirts keeping closer to the sand and drifting between the small rocky outcrops, and Wilson found himself being the center of attention in this mini ecosystem.

Most of the fish kept their distance as he walked, but schools trailed him, blue Smolt Fry darting in close to his arms and legs, green Runty Guppys rising high enough to even drift by the glass holes of his helmet, round eyes looking in at him. A few Baitfish had grouped up behind him, swarmed about the length of hose and looked it over, and Squirts kept dashing about his feet, poking at the suits boots and making him have to slow down even more so.

All coastal fishes, and all small fish. He's seen these, caught them himself on the surface, but seeing them flock all about him in thriving schools, darting between the young kelp strands before rushing back around just to poke and prod at the suits thick fabrics and metal bits and pieces, it was-

-it was a rather fascinating experience. 

The sea stack was near right in front of him now, the waters above still that thick haze, but there was certainly light that reached and glowed the sea floor with life, and Wilson spent a few good minutes just taking it all in. 

Fish darted and circled about him, as if awestruck by his very presence, looking into the helmet as he looked out, and when he rose his hand and the thick fabric glove the small groups swam about the motion, away and then back, the faintest of experimental nibbles as the currents drifted and the kelp swayed all around.

Even the ambience was different; gone was the utter silence and only his own self in the void, and now he could hear the faintest sound of the waves, so far above, crashing against the sea stack itself, the noise movement of fish and the drifting currents that the kelp fronds danced to in their own humming silence, and it was so very _other_ compared to the havoc of the surface waters that Wilson found himself almost as enamored in the environment as the fish were with him.

Eventually the calm spread over, the fascination faded, and the fish schools started to drift back to their everyday business. Wilson found himself standing, not quite alone anymore, in a meadow of kelp, fish life, and the towering sea stack that rose into faded teal shadows above.

Slowly turning, the fish darting or shifting about him in unison, Wilson carefully leaned a bit to look upwards at the landmark he had followed out from the sandy wastes.

The stone was varying, smoothed in edges from the constant ocean currents and jagged in others, holes and dips and loops formed from ages upon ages of erosion, fish darting here and there all throughout as bull kelp fringed the base and twisted up from the sands, and, as the light filtered in from above, easing through the thick glass panes as his every stale chilly breath inhaled and exhaled through the helmets enclosed space, Wilson wondered how it could look so _alien_ compared to the jutted raw mass of stone and rock he saw on the surface.

It wasn't just kelp that grew about the formation; barnacles coated much of the higher up surface, in trails and spirals that bloomed all the way upwards and disappeared from visible sight, and under those was a thick dark growth, vine like and yet not, dark greens and blues that seemed almost rooted into the very stone. Running the suits thick gloved hand across the growth cause no reaction, and even carefully chipping away and peeling back a small network of the stuff caused no reaction, besides for a few Squirts darting up and eating the smaller filaments and any debris that he left in his wake, and Wilson went about storting the sample away. 

One of the barnacles, a larger one that pulsed a bit and was very obviously attached to the dark rooting growth, was carefully wiggled and pulled on until it snapped away as well, dropping into one of the pouches hanging from his side, and his movements and minor destruction had caught a few schools of fish attention, drifting about him and lunging in flashes and dips and dives to whatever drifted away from his hands or fell from the scars he had ended up causing upon the stone. 

So far, Wilson was rather pleased with his turn of luck. There was a thriving ecosystem down here, and it seemed to be caused by the sea stacks presence. The empty sand and silt lands out in open ocean, close to the surface but not nearly close enough, were quite barren compared to this thriving little patch of flora and fauna. 

It was evidence of there being _worth_ down here, and reason for him to have ventured out and deep like he had. Maybe it wasn't all that, all of this he could easily catch up top, but as Wilson took a slow look around, fish thriving all about and the slow swaying kelp, the pulsing masses of barnacle growth scattered about the sea stacks stony skin, the sight itself was discovery enough! 

He certainly couldn't compare it to anything upon the Constants mainland, that was for sure; the deep ponds were choked in frog spawn and algae, the swamps mired with thick mud and tentacles, and nothing in the caves, no matter how deep and odd they twisted and tunneled, was as clear cut _alive_ as this.

It left a very certain...feeling in the air, or at least the little bubble of air in his helmet that kept him alive down here, and Wilson found himself wasting more time than he had anticipated, watching the fish and noting every little detail to the back of his mind, memorizing each movement and interaction, the way of life for such tiny, insignificant beings.

And to think he only saw them as some small snack to tide him over during sailing trips! 

They still were food, of course, and Wilson did find himself eyeing any bigger specimens, the ones he usually caught up top were a bit on the scrawny side, but the fascinating aspect of all this was that these fish were near _untouchable_ down here.

He had nets, he could easily scoop up a few and lug them around, but Wilson was saving the supplies for any other more driven discoveries. The fish drifting about his gloves did not fear him, and it's been awhile since he's seen something so small, so vulnerable, and so damn at ease with his larger presence.

The closest he could compare would be the shortbirds, but those, uh, those grew up quickly. The fish down here couldn't harm a fly, even if they had the sentient forethought to try.

There were more sea stacks, out in the further reaches ahead, dark shadow shapes in the teal murk of the ocean coastal floor, and Wilson carefully turned himself about, watching his step as he moved about. The fish schools drifted about him, losing interest, and now he had his eyes set to the low of kelp that drifted ahead, an undersea meadow that fringed the sea stack foundations. Fish popped up here and there, and, as he watched, Wilson even caught sight of the pale wash of color and bumpy scaled surface of a Popperfish, round head dipping above the kelp fronds before disappearing under the swathes of plant cover. 

A glance to the compass showed he was definitely going off course, farther from the shoreline than he had planned, but after a moment of pondering it over, his heartbeat muffled over by the living ocean ambience that surrounded him, Wilson made his decision with little trouble.

Sidestepping kelp, and then finally having to give up as the sand became invisible under the fronds of green and glowing leafy growth, Wilson started forward once more. The kelp bent around him, swayed from the currents that he left behind, and a few fish even followed him, dispersing amongst the fronds as he walked away from the first sea stack and towards the arch of another crooked stone landmark.

The massive statues weren't alone; dotted all about were small half formed stacks, stone slides and towers in varying degrees of height and weight, and some looked cut down due to water erosion, others crumbled in kelp strewn, dark growth rooted ruins, and all about the small coastal fishes thrived wherever he looked.

It was so alive out here, compared to the sandy waste of void he had landed in. Being in the middle of this almost made the idea of emptiness, of that worrying faint idea of abyss and nothingness, up down left right side to side, it made the fear almost laughable really.

Wilson walked the coastal sea floor, fish drifting all about him, kelp swaying with his step and the ocean breeze pushing him forward in its far more soothing lull of ambience, and for a brief moment he might have even smiled.


	3. Expository

The kelp meadows did not extend far past the sea stacks.

The sand and sediment hadn't gone soft again under the suits heavy boots, but Wilson eyed the sea floor anyhow, the scattered bits of rock and debris that now lay across the pale silt, but he still hasn't seen a hint of coral as of yet. Unless that dark growth on the stone towers could be considered as such, then it seemed that the bull kelp was the predominate plant matter around here.

Smaller rocky foundations rose and fell as he continued forward, heading West with a few dips towards the North when it looked interesting enough. Wilson was fairly certain he'd know when the coastal waters turned into the rough swells farther out; the water quality was still hazy but blue green, light still filtering in from above, and he's found no use for the combined miner hat/lantern invention as of yet. A part of him wanted to go deeper, really test out all the work he's put into this diving suit, but the hose looped behind him and trailing off to disappear into the far upwards cloudy waters reminded him that he wasn't the only one out on this trip.

So far he hasn't felt anything down the line, and there have been no disturbances in the waters above him, or at least nothing he could see. Maxwell and Webber should be doing fine up there, and Wilson wasn't going to start racing forward or anything so the pace will keep steady for both their sides.

A slow glance behind him showed the now faint meadow that he was leaving behind, the knee high, some almost chest high sheets of kelp that slowly swayed to the smaller undersea currents, the dark shadowy silhouettes of fish darting here or there for brief moments above the fronds. Popperfish drifted about the outskirts, but were oddly skittish when he had approached; their round empty eyes had watched him tread past, darting away the instant he made any vague move towards them, and the kicked up billows of muddy silt drifted about in unseen currents that would, eventually, settle to his suits boots. 

He must look a mess by now; sand and sediment, caught in the folds of thick fabric or crevices of metal plating, leaving cloudy trails behind as he walked, bits of kelp fronds that had torn away and gotten stuck to him as he had pushed and shoved his way out of the undersea meadows grip, but Wilson was not too distracted by this.

The suit was doing its job rather splendidly, and even the cold waters surrounding him held no match to the padding and insulation he's pieced together inside his undersea armor. This was the first true test run, and so far he was very satisfied with the results. All he needed now was for there to be a better reason for him to venture out here than just his own curiosity.

The distinction between the sea stack biome to the sandy flats ahead was sharp, with only the slightest dip of slope, minor enough to not cause Wilson any trouble as he wadded forward atop the more solid sediment, and behind him the drifting straggler Popperfish watched him leave, kelp swaying in a glimmering sea dance, undisturbed once more by human contact.

The plant matter caught in one of his gloves caught his attention as he walked on, and Wilson slowed his pace as he clumsily picked and itched at the bothersome kelp, snagged between the metal plating that anchored the gloves to the sleeves of the suit arm. 

Winona had offered her workmanship skills with some of the metal work; she had found the idea interesting, or at least seemed quite invested in Wilson's planned blueprints, and while he had sworn her to secrecy in what he planned to do with it the woman hadn't seemed to take him too seriously.

Her work, as he was finding, was not at all lesser for it though. While Wilson had a certain level of confidence in his own engineering skills, his expertise was in broader, more, er, architectural structure. Sure, he can throw together a beefalo saddle, even wrangle the finer details of a war saddle, but this required more hands on experience when it came to the connective points, the waterproofing and mobility. Winona has shown her experience with the flexibility of her catapults, the well rounded nature of the generators and sensors for her spotlights, and Wilson trusted her to fill in the spots he missed or just skimmed over when he had laid the blueprints out before her and asked if she was willing to lend a hand.

When the project had been underway she had been almost as enthusiastic as Wilson, though obviously for different reasons; Winona did not want to _actually_ walk the seafloor, though she had wished him good luck when she had seen him off, handing over the upgraded flexible, stress resistant hose and a few more additions to be added to the crank pump. Those had been easy to adjust on the smooth sail out to open sea, and Wilson had made a promise to repay her back for the help later. If he could find something of interest, a new fuel source perhaps, then that may just make her day.

The kelp eventually tore, left a raggedly small, insignificant few shreds behind as Wilson flicked away the plant remains, and his slow steps slowed even more when he raised his gaze and realized the sandy flats were changing.

The sea stacks were only faint silhouettes back behind him now, not even a hint of the meadows in the hazy gloom of blue green waters, but all around him, speckled and scattered even more so ahead, were what appeared to be boulders.

Odd porous things, misshapen, eroded by the ocean currents and time, pale and slightly reflective as wavering streams of light danced atop them, the reflection of light from the far off surface somehow reaching all the way down here. 

Wilson halted by two of the objects, one leaned against the other in a slant, and when he ran the suits thick gloves atop the surface there was a faint dusting quality to it, grains falling away from the fabric as he lifted his hand away. Nothing else was in the waters surrounding him, nothing but these outcrops of oddly soft, crumbling stones, smaller ones pebbled about and sunken into the sediment. 

No plant life, and no visible fish either. When Wilson twisted about, mindful of the hose and letting his gaze trail from the meadow behind him and the scattered stones ahead, another realization graced him; the water quality was somehow hazier, clouded in a dense way his rather limited vision could barely get across to him, and Wilson eyed the direction he had been going, neutral frown falling on his face as he considered the stark difference. 

Glancing down, watching the stones near him for any odd behavior, anything unexpected, and when Wilson got none he carefully started walking once again, this time with a bit more caution and less careless curiosity to guide him. Perhaps this clouded haze deterred animal life, the crumbling nature of the stones making the sandy soil uninhabitable for plant growth. A natural wasteland of some sort, desolate and empty save for these odd white rock structures, and even as he squinted, stared ahead and carefully wandered around the boulders before him Wilson could not see a single hinting shadow or silhouette ahead of him through the gloom.

The light hadn't dimmed, not at all, somehow it seemed as if to _brighten_ , reflected in a frazzled fog by the crumbling debris all around, and it took a moment to realize he was walking into this blind.

Glances at his compass confirmed his direction, his vague positioning, so he wasn't lost, but Wilson carefully stretched his arms out a bit, alert as the hazy cloud overtook his vision, the murk of blue green waters tainted by this odd almost mist like bubble, blanket, and it took even longer for him to realize he had been completely swallowed up by it. 

Turning in a slow circle revealed nothing but his lesser vision, a few of those pale porous stones, his compass reassuring direction once again, and Wilson paused, halted as a slight cloud of silt, of pale crumbling sediment dusted up from his sudden stop. Sand grains overlapped his boots, settled in the slightest of drifts that was cradled by some faint ocean current, and Wilson stared down at them a moment before closing his eyes, taking a steadying breath.

He wasn't afraid of whatever this was, per say, nor was he truly unnerved. The ruins were far more stressing than some odd pocket of foggy underwater murk ocean, but…

But, he sort of knew what to expect in the ruins. He's been down there enough, explored as thoroughly as one can, discovered and looted and gathered all that could be, and Wilson was confident when it came to cave ambience.

The ocean was far different, and while the kelp meadows back there felt full of life, this…

This felt desolate. Not like the empty sandy flats, as if open lands waiting to be filled by just the right conditions; Wilson kept expecting to see _bones_ out here.

It wouldn't be too out of place, not with these odd white stone objects around. Wilson was no geologist, he had no idea what any of this was made of or why it would be out here on the bottom of the sea, and he swept his gaze all about him through the cloudy waters, nothing but debris and rock catching his eye.

Huh. Some of them, now that he was really looking, look as if to be twisted into little towers.

Like the sea stacks, Wilson realized, and he wandered on, eyeing the empty, almost untouched structures, the shapes becoming sharper, less rounded and yet just as porous, just as crumbling underneath his hands whenever he reached out to touch.

None of them were unsteady enough for him to accidently push over, solid in a way he hadn't actually anticipated, and Wilson wandered, the stones growing more complex, a bit bigger, broader as he went on. The haze in the ocean stayed, the fog cloud still not even hinting to shadowy figures ahead, to anything that might lay in wait for him out here, and there was no sound, no ambience in these still waters.

Only his breath hummed in his ears, the slightest ringing and the beat of his pulse. Air still traveled through the hose, up and down, and the staleness was offset by the chill, but there was nothing that felt wrong about the suit itself.

Just the ocean around him, feeling off, odd, empty in a way that didn't really feel...right. As if there was supposed to be something here, out floating around, but just wasn't anymore.

 _Missing,_ Wilson realized, _it was the feeling of something missing._

Whether that was his own thoughts just not grasping the concept or something was literally missing from the empty scene before him, he just didn't know. 

It did make him shiver though, a discomforting thought that he was alone out here but _shouldn't_ be. 

He hoped what brought on this idea was not some degradation of his mental health. He didn't _feel_ unsteady, or really very nervous or paranoid; just discomforted, and that wasn't exactly a crystal clear sign of maybe having to go out looking for flowers, green mushrooms, or familiar company. 

Maybe it was just his keen senses; if things feel off, that usually spelled disaster, and Wilson knew all about that by now.

He would turn around and try to leave, but he's already gone so far and the compass still had North West on it, so his curiosity won out. 

There was a saying about that, taunted at him before, but Wilson knew the tail end of said saying. He'll just be very cautious.

Around this point the stones were less scattered and more clustered, little obtuse towers twisting in sharp edges, rising only up to his knee, sometimes to his chest. The formations looked odd, built up and some layered by the pale white lines that indicated growth of some sort, others pure and unblemished save for the porous, crumbling nature of the material. Their growth seemed fairly natural, but by what?

As he scraped a hand atop one of the towers a plume of the white dust followed after his movement, swirling in the waters and staining the glove chalky white, the faint glimmer of reflective light sparkling off it in a less chalky way. The cloud didn't quite settle, just slowly drifted, before seemingly melting into the hazy water itself. 

While Wilson could conclude this to mean the fog all about was made by these stone deposits, that didn't really answer much else. Did it diffuse over time? If so, how long did it take? Why did some of these half formed towers look to be in progress, not disintegrating?

And what would be the reason for this all in the first place? The sea stacks made somewhat sense now, allowing protection from the currents and life to grow under their shadows, but what use was an odd plain of white stones that murked up the ocean waters with their residue?

Wilson pondered on this as he walked, still headed North, the hose behind him still giving leeway and yet still tugging the boat far above him on the surface along, and the haze didn't look to let up in any direction no matter which way he looked.

Sometimes he had to raise a glove, very carefully scrape at the glass holes that adorned his helmet; a white powder buildup was coating his vision, and it just as easily crumbled away on his gloves fingers as it did settling and obscuring his sight. The suit will be encrusted with this stuff by the time he'd get out of this cloud!

And then, finally, something stopped him. Right ahead was another large expanse of white stone, layered on one side like a leaning tower. It was big enough to almost reach his full height, but still nothing that truly earned his interest.

Upon the stone, however, were the faint indications of movement.

Wilson cautiously approached it, leaned down to let his multitude of pinhole outlooks give him a better view, and as Wilson glanced between each he realized that these stones were porous for a _reason._

Small, nearly translucent slimes were embedded into the stones surface, or at least looked to be so. Most were small, and he could see the fuzzy crowds of what had to be more even smaller ones, almost invisible to the naked eye. If he had some sort of magnification, a microscope, even if rudimentary with the limited supplies the Constant offered, Wilson wondered if he'd see the individual growths the larger specimens showed, or if it would be some gelatinous colony.

Turning his attention to the bigger ones, careful to keep some distance away from the stones surface, Wilson squinted at what looked like little tentacles at the ends. These ones were more solid in color, adopting the chalky white of the stone and less translucent than the smaller forms, and they shifted in uniform waves, as if by some faint oceanic current he could not feel or notice. The tendrils waved, and he watched as one suddenly curled inward, as if having come into contact with something as it engorged before the tentacles once more crept out and waved in the still waters.

Perhaps it fed on something he could not see, something that propagated in these filmy clouded waters. Or maybe even the dusty residue of the stones? 

The growth certainly looked slimy, large tube like individuals waving their tendrils and the smaller pulsating masses all crowded together, and Wilson straightened back up, brow furrowed as he thought.

He's never seen anything like this, and while he saw himself as a scientist he was no zoologist; these looked like odd living plants, but less fibrous than mandrake roots or carnivorous plateau jungle flora. More like, like…

Like jelly, actually. Jellyfish?

But he's never seen jellyfish in these waters before; rainbow jellies and other such forms lived out in the tropics, and while there were certainly squids those had thicker hides, less gelatin and more animal. 

...Well, whatever these were, it wouldn't stop him from gathering a sample.

It took a minute for Wilson to unhook one of the jars on his hip, this time going for one that had a simple hook and latch than the more secure ones; he was wary of what damage contact could do to his suit, if these would eat through it due to acidity or dietary needs. If he lost the specimen he could always come back down for more, judging from the sheer amount spread across the rocks side surface.

Scraping the jar clumsily against the stone let up a plume of that white powder, and the odd jelly growths reacted in twitches and waving tendrils, swaying about from the currents his movements made, but he carefully rolling the glass lip edge up against one of the larger life forms, pushing against the pale goopy look of its embedded underside.

Which, turned out to not be dug into the stone; it popped off with less encouragement, a flab of thin membrane that waved in the water from its underside, and the tube wiggled like a worm for an odd moment, tendrils dragging across the glass, before settling inside with another puff of crumbling stone residue.

When Wilson finally secured the lid and rose it up to eye level, he was surprised to see it mostly upright once more. Its underside slithered, moved slow and wavey, like a slug almost, and the tubes tendrils prodded at the top of the lid. Not with any sort of curious intention, but a dragging movement, as if searching for something to grab and pull back inwards.

He wondered if it would starve, before he got back to the surface. What was the metabolism rate of a jelly?

Either way, a specimen was a specimen, alive or dead; that was one of the first lessons Wilson had taught himself when he had started dabbling into the sciences. Take what he can get and learn from there.

Clicking it back to the waist of the suit, the stone itself did not look worse for wear, and the rest of the growths did not look to be distressed from losing one of their number. They were probably mindless, as any brainless jelly he has caught and cut up before; odd that Wilson couldn't take a guess to what these might grow up to be, since he was sure he's never seen a jelly on the surface of these cold waters.

Carefully going around the stone into a cluster of twisted towers and foundations showed off more of them, coating the lower bellied surface of the white structures, large and small colonies alike. A part of him almost had him reach out, to touch a larger fat tube that probably wouldn't fit into any of his collecting jars, but caution and experience pulled him back. It gnawed at him, wanting to touch and grab and manipulate these odd jelly like growths, but Wilson did not want to have some horrid mishap down here, and he still had to think of the other two on the boat above him.

Briefly, he wondered if the waters they saw were clouded and hazy as well, or if this was just below the surface and invisible up top. Perhaps they wondered why he was going so slowly.

The powdery fog somehow seemed to get worse as he went on, more and more of the jellies spread atop the more cluttered stones, towers of chalky white mineral, and Wilson had to slow a more often just to wipe at the glass of his helm, dust away the layering residue clouding up his already sparse vision.

It was during one of these instances, almost ready to just give himself a shake to see if he could fling it all out of his face in one go, that Wilsons foot caught on something.

It didn't send him down, thankfully, but the jolt of sudden fear and and panic had him jerkily taking steps back, the hazy cloud sent up by his commotion obscuring his vision even more so than before, covering the stones and built up towers all about him and engulfing the sea water in one almost terrifying moment.

When it cleared, powder slowly drifting to the sea floor atop more layers of white chalk, the water too dense to take in more of it, Wilson realized he was right before a singular massive tower.

The stone scrawled upward in sharp angles and edges, solid and heavy and darkened by the shadow it gave off, yet still white, chalky, porous looking in the smoothened sides and twists and turns. It was thick, not quite like the sea stack and not nearly as foreboding, and in a flash of understanding Wilson realized what, exactly, he was seeing.

It was a salt formation.

The answer to the odd jellies laid coated about the base, and Wilson stared wide eyed at the life that had colonized in thick clusters and clumps, almost touching to the salty sand buildup of the sea floor with how bunched up together they all were.

These didn't quite look like jellies any longer, more like pinecones, edges of hard armored calcium and salt buildup that thronged the softer slug like insides. Even from here he could see some struggle, the tops of each cone tubing wiggling and pulsing in movement, and as the seconds crept by each layer would just...pop off.

Small little things, formed with gelatin insides that quickly turned stark white, then grey, and the deposit hardened into shells of almost armor. They were too small to be a threat, and their face shields, the slightest hint of mandibles twisting and solidifying into jaws, that darker color that almost looked like an evil, angry little face, it hasn't fully formed just yet but Wilson recognized them all the same.

Newborn Cookie Cutters drifted all about the base of the salt formation, some larger, older and having a darker armor than the others, the first twiggy formations of those twitching claws created by leftover jelly tendrils from their younger form, and they moved in jerky fast movements, twisting and turning as if not having a complete sense of direction just yet. Even the larger ones still had tentacles at their ends, base tails that helped adjust their movement or, in the cases that Wilson watched, clung to the salt stones surface and seemed to have a rest upon.

None were bigger than his hand, and not at all the size of the monsters that were surely on the surface.

That jumpstarted Wilsons brain, a sudden moment of understanding of _where_ , exactly, he was, and _where_ , exactly, the boat was in conjunction.

...Maxwell was not going to be happy with him.

Wilson slowly turned his gaze upwards, the hazy light glowing waters above showing no signs of drifting gnawed boat chunks, nor shattered shells, but he shouldn't wait around. This close to a salt formation and there must have been gobs of the things that had latched on and started devouring the ship; there were no signs of the boat breaking apart, not even a hint of whatever fight must have broken out up there, but his gut twisted and Wilson realized just how much of an issue it was, for him to wander around blind like this.

Webber was up there, and while he usually liked to believe Maxwell can take care of himself the sheer fact was that he had just led the ship into dangerous waters. His own cautions be damned, it must be worse up there.

It spurred him on to do the only thing he could do; slowly turn around and start dragging the hose, and its tied down boat, out from Cookie Cutter territory. It was probably too late honestly, but sticking around was not the best idea; the little newborns budding up around the base were too small to do any damage, but who knew how fast they grew, or if any were just lurking a few feet below the surface and would swim upwards once wood started to drift to their level.

Wilson internally cursed himself for having not thought up a more sophisticated way of communication than just tugging the hose, or at the very least had figured out a waterproof way to bring his list of phrases down here; if he could, he'd have signaled a very genuine "sorry" upwards to the other two. He would just have to make do apologizing once he was back on board later.

His plan to carefully turn away from the salt formation, careful to not brush up against it nor disturb the countless polyps and newborn ship-eaters, was interrupted as Wilson turned his gaze outwards and saw-

-a dark shape, drifting a little above him.

It wasn't a large Cookie Cutter, not with that silhouette, dark and large, possibly as big as him actually with its length alone. The hazy waters shed no clarity on it, this long blot above him and outlined by the lighter shade of light coming from the surface, and it floated there lazily, unassumingly.

Wilson stared at it, frozen, still, and through all this time trucking through this cloud of dissipated salt and salt formations, the foreboding feeling of there having to be _something_ else out here, finally the other shoe dropped as the dark shape twisted, angled downwards around the salt stone base. Small faint movements in the haze indicated that the Cookie Cutters were unfazed by another presence, uncaring as they had been with him so close, and slowly, steadily, the creature nearly as large as himself drifted down to brush by Wilson.

Its long jaws passed him by, the slight gape as large gills along its side pulsed, flushed the salt in crusted edges about its fins in great calcified white sheaths, and its eye was pale, crusted, filmy as it curved, long salt dragged tail shifting in only the slightest of movements. The fogginess of the water swirled in its wake as it drifted by him, blind and coated in ever thicker layers of salt; unlike the Cookie Cutters though, these did not form some sort of armor or shield atop its skin, only weighed it down and distorted, twisted its long crusted body.

Wilson stayed absolutely still, watched it go by with shallow breaths, keeping himself calm as its tail fins near touched him. The native salt dwellers didn't acknowledge its presence, or perhaps didn't have the brains to do so, and it became apparent this was to their disadvantage; the fish moved so slow, swiped its long snout in sluggish curves, but the moment one of the larger Cookie Cutter larvae bumped up close, smacking into the side of its jaw the fish came alive.

It swung its mouth spasticity, opening wide with puffs of salt dusting with buildup from the very insides of its mouth, crackling hardened salt deposits on its face sloughing off in thick rugged chunks as it spasmed, and the snaps were not audible but the water vibration made Wilson shiver, watching as the fish seemed to enter a seizure in an attempt to catch anything nearby it.

It's success was met by it going shock still, slowly starting to drift downwards as its uneven weight dragged it down, and its gills flared and jaw choked as it clamped and snapped upon a Cookie Cutters half hardened shell, but after only a moment where its tail fins almost brushed against the salt sea floor there was a burst from its jaws as the armor finally cracked apart.

Immediately the other larvae wiggled in the direction of the fish, to the growing putrid cloud of ripped apart gelatin and paler small flecks of flesh and organs, falling pieces of the armor as if broken like a fragile eggshell, and Wilson watched as the mini frenzy of uncoordinated Cookie Cutters was left behind by the satiated fish, slowly swimming away in its drift around the salt formation once more.

Cannibalism at its finest, Wilson thought awkwardly to himself, watching the little remains and leftovers get gobbled up by unformed gel mandibles and bone hard jaws alike; some of the smaller larvae were eaten up in the chaos by the larger Cutter's. As the water cleared, or at least only became hazed up by salt clouds and less destroyed newborn monsters, Wilson made himself take a steadying breath, feeling a bit winded.

So, what did he learn then?

He turned away from the salt formation, started listing off the strange jelly tubes, the polyps and larvae and Cutter life cycle, the blind predator that could probably snap his suit to shreds that patrolled the outskirts, and the very real fact that topside the boat must have had a hell of a time of his curious adventuring. 

It helped calm his heart rate, calm his breathing, and Wilson had known he would see bigger things out here, not just Smolt Fry or Bitty Baitfish or Popperfish, the Constants ocean was huge and deep and _of course_ there'd be something big enough to attack him down here-

-but most of those big things were on the surface, right? And they could be so rare to find too, it was bad luck that had a shark appear on the horizon or bad sailing to enter Cookie Cutter territory, it wasn't like boating around invited every monstrous thing to immediately appear!

And yet, he might have let his earlier experience with the meadow soften his more alert, vaguely paranoid senses. Wilson scolded himself for that, grit his teeth as he near whispered his frustrations out loud to himself, just enough to cover the faint vein of freezing fear that had gotten him earlier.

That fish had been as large as him, and maybe only its blind, slow salt ridden state had kept it from noticing, from attacking him. 

As Wilson walked his steady way through the salt ridden waters, compass pointing him North now and into clearer ocean, he focused on steadying himself, staying calm.

If there was something like that out here, and with all his knowledge of what was on the surface already well known-

What else could be down here with him, and how willing was it to attack him?

***

The boat started to move again just as the last blasted monster was cut down.

It withered atop the wooden blanks, sliced near in half as its salty insides reacted violently with the leftover shreds of fuel created by the nightmare sword, and Maxwell huffed, panting from the exertion before he kicked the disgusting thing overboard. Its jaw tried to nip at his shoes as it went, a spray of ocean water dousing his already salt dried suit as the heavy shell side splashed into the water, and with that he straightened up, took a deep breath stinking of salt and rotten fish, and dismissed the sword before it decided he was better prey than what it was previously cutting through.

Webber was thankfully at the pump, turning the lever with their free hand holding the paddle they still had in front of them like a shield. The bite marks that scrawled across it showed how much of a grip the blasted creatures had with those jaws, but the boat had no visible leaks, only hints of sawdust and a bumpier surface now.

The salt rock formation slowly drifted away from them, the boat tugged along out into the open sea, and with a grand heaved sigh Maxwell closed his eyes, sucked in an aching breath as the rush of fighting started to fade away. His foot still ached from trying to kick one of the creatures overboard the moment it had lodged its teeth into the deck, and the stinging sticky feeling of the dragging gnawed bite to his arm was flaring up finally, blood soaking through his torn sleeve and dripping onto the wood boards, but as long as the damn boat wasn't going under they should be good. 

Webber whistled a little sound as he approached, limbs waving as they kept an eye on the crank and quick looks behind them, but Maxwell just waved them off the stool, took over for this bothersome task as he collapsed down with a strained groan. He was hoping he hadn't pulled anything in his leg, but there was unmistakable soreness and heat to it that led him to believe he was in for some foul luck.

Bloody Cookie Cutters, nasty things. Why Wilson thought dragging them out here was in his best interest was anyone's guess, but the boat wasn't too damaged and Webber was already flitting around, dragging patches out and hurriedly scouring the wooden planks for any sign of leakage or creaking distress. By the time they had found something near the edges, pasting and then banging around with one of the smaller hammers, Maxwell had to switch arms with the pump, folding his injured arm to his lap and gritting his teeth, ignoring the puddle of blood that had started forming under him, mixing thinly with lapping waves of ocean water.

The blasted things bit deep and hard, he's seen passing Gnarwails with holes and marks botched across their thick rubbery skin made from these exact teeth, and the pain was swelling up the longer he tried to ignore it. Getting up to tend to it would cut off the air supply for the man below, and Maxwell internally cursed Wilson for making idiotic, clumsy mistakes.

Taking the boat out to salt territory, pah! Maxwell might have seen it a mile off, he had certainly made sure Webber was ready for any attacking Cutters the instant he was assured Wilson wasn't going to turn around, but there had been a lot of them. They were all lucky the boat hadn't been overrun; the nightmare sword had seen to that, as little use it was going to be now, and most of the creatures had dived back into the water and started eating their fallen in favor of getting cut down themselves. 

"Mister Maxwell?"

He looked up, dragged from his thoughts and the growing constant pulsing pain in his arm, and Webber chittered, fur bristled with salt and flecks of spilled fish fluids and guts, a hint damp from being splashed by the creatures withering and waves, and in their hands were a few more supplies from the chest. It took a moment longer for Maxwell to respond, focus entirely on the crank and not letting the light headed, nauseous tide get to him, but his gaze fell on the thin streams of purple blood soaking Webbers fur, the faint hint of lost bristles and bared chitin plates.

"...Did you get bit?" Maxwell leaned forward, and he wasn't slurring yet but things were getting a bit woozy and how hard exactly had that damn fish bit him anyhow-

"Mhm, but it's only a scratch! Their teeth couldn't get us!" The spider child puffed up, bristles rising as they turned their arm and showed off the scraping lines dragged to their chitin, the lost fur and tiny pinpricks of oozing blood mixing with the thick paste of healing salve. Then they pulled their mandibles back, clicked deep in their throat as they inched closer and blinked all their wide, pale eyes at him in synchronized pairs. "But, we think one got you really good, Mister Maxwell. You're bleeding everywhere."

It wasn't an exclamation, just a simple fact that they twittered, and the moment Maxwell dizzily tried to straighten up and have a look at his arm they easily caught his hand, dragging forward and eyeing the mess that was the wound now.

"It could've been worse, pal…" And it certainly looked foul now, it probably had sank through more than he had originally anticipated, and his assumption might have been the death of him had Webber not hurriedly started pasting the thick pink salve all over, gunking up the torn fringes of his sleeve and making the old man huff in vague irritation, but his focus was still on the crank, the pain encompassing and yet not seemingly too important right now.

That might be the blood loss doing him in, now that he considered it, and Maxwell mustered up a breath as Webber went about wrapping the wound in thick, tight binds with silk bandaging.

"Thank you, Webber." When they clicked and clacked, easily knotted up the now blood stained, spotting silk ties, the pure fact that he hadn't anticipated the injuries severity spurned on a bit more, though his vision was getting a bit spotty as Maxwell squinted about a moment. "I appreciate the gesture, though I would have taken care of it in due time."

They just hummed, nodding, not looking at him as they realized their spider paws were coated in blood, and they quickly scurried over to dip their claws into the passing salt water waves. The formations were steadily disappearing behind them now, out into open, darker blue waters, and Maxwell sat for a few minutes in slightly dizzy silence before the child was suddenly at his side again.

Their claws were wrapped atop his own, forcing another turn of the handle, and Maxwell belatedly realized he hadn't been doing anything at all.

"We'll take of this, Mister Maxwell! You should sit down and rest!"

Their voice had that level of cheer that was usually quite easy to read as hidden concern, childish faint panic and fears, but even with the salve his arm was on fire and Maxwell faintly realized that he _really_ didn't feel good.

His sense of responsibility tried to raise its head as he cleared his throat, the two of them were the only ones out here and if Wilson did something stupid again then he might be technically out for the count, but Webber was already pushing, poking, lightly shoving him up, spider face twisted into something that might have been determination, and while it settled badly that one simple little bite was all it took to make him near useless Maxwell was fairly certain that he was even worse than useless if he just sat here and inadvertently let the other man down in the waters suffocate.

Though, from that little scuffle with Cookie Cutters, Maxwell was seriously considering if that wouldn't be what Wilson would deserve. Walking into salt territory without any warning or preparation, the nerve of him!

Standing took a lot out of him, and Webber had already scooted by to sit on the stool, turning the lever with a focused look on their spider face, and for a moment he just hovered, waves of pain lapping at his fogging mind and awash with a mild confusion that kept having him glance to the bandaging and squint at the dotted bleed through that spotted the pale silk.

"...There's a grass mat in the chest, Mister Maxwell!" Webbers voice was thick with that determination, an obvious attempt at confidence that seemed to ring true as they directed his attention away from confusion and onto a set purpose, and while a part of him was rubbed raw at having to be told what to do by a child, _Webber_ of all people, the one he was meant to be taking care of, the rest of him was feeling weak and unsteady and still a little dizzily angry at Higgsbury for this mess.

One bite and he was out of commission, and damn it all that was to be expected at this point, wasn't it?

Then again, Cookie Cutters bit hard, scooped out flesh as easily as a spoon through soft butter, and vaguely Maxwell wondered how the one that had initially latched onto his arm hadn't scraped the bone on the way down. It wasn't as if he had a lot of flesh for it to be chewing on in the first place.

...He was going to give Wilon an earful the minute this foolish expedition was finished. As if the ocean wasn't dangerous enough _topside._

It occurred to him a few dizzy minutes later, clumsily pulling out the mat and making a few things shift around in the chest with a few clinks and clanks and clunks that had him pause in confusion every single damn time, and the feeling of nausea was coming back around and the pain was _insufferable_ but his mind caught back up and Maxwell realized that, while they had been on the surface of salt territories, Wilson had been _down below._

That had him look out at the waves, the impenetrable foggy blue green of ocean waters, and only the slight squeak of the crank being pumped echoed over the sea, Webbers low chittering breath and the shallow salt laden ocean breezes. 

The Cutters had been everywhere up here, faces turned to the sky and floating in small gangs, colonies, waiting for their next meal to come drifting on by. 

Maxwell had no idea what it must have looked like below.

The hose hadn't been tugged even once since they had started this whole venture, and a part of him assumed Higgsbury had forgotten his own damn list of signals, but at least there was a hint of relief in that. The thought of Wilson being swarmed by those hungry monsters was not a pleasant one, and it sent a jolt of helpless discomfort up Maxwells spine.

If anything like that _had_ happened, there would have been nothing he or Webber could have done to help. Nothing but sit up here and wait for that telltale flash of a Life Amulet being used, a ghost red pale glow to light up the waters below, and then only hope they could either pull Wilson up in time or that he might make the swim up before drowning.

These thoughts were not particularly pleasant, especially in his shivering, painfilled state, and Maxwell dropped the mat down by the rolled sail, near collapsed down atop it, face squinted to the sickly blue sky. Webber still did their duty, their face curled in focus and thoughts turned inwards, and he knew rather well that handing the reins of control over to the child, all that responsibility when it came to _sailing_ , was not a good choice but Maxwell was very much indisposed at the moment.

Blood loss was doing him in when it usually didn't, not with his thick foul blood, but whatever coated the jaws of those nasty buggers, the faint stinging they left behind in their bite, had made the wound weep too much too fast and Maxwell couldn't do anything but suck in a shivery breath, fight the rolling pain and weakness trying to settle its place into him, close his eyes and try to rest.

Eventually the pains receded, the sound of the waves against the boat and the faint hints of splashed salt water broke through the fog, the steady creaking as Webber turned the lever, tapped their foot in unhidden jitteriness and clicked and twittered and gurgled to themself. The salve did its work, as painfully as usual, and the doze Maxwell drifted into was a bit uneven and unbalanced from the familiar rocking of the ship, a hint of faint memory rising like a bubble and leaving that feeling of confusion to settle once more as time crept by.

And then a faint bit of splashing roused him, a shock in the nerves at the sudden sound of it, and Maxwell sat up in one motion. 

He regretted it instantly, putting a hand to his head and hissing out a groan of discomforting pain and uneven equilibrium, out of it still as he squinted his eyes in a brief scour atop the boat for the disturbance. Webber still sat, was kicking their legs out and humming a little ditty, a few of their eyes closed or half lidded in calm boredom, but when they noticed him up they twittered out a little screech that rung echoes that lasted in his ears.

"Mister Maxwell, you're up! Are you feeling better now?"

He didn't answer immediately, still looking for what had dizzily gotten him up in the first place, and-

And again the nearby fishing tin splashed a shallow wave of water overtop its lip, the sound of withering movement and dipping, slippery twists and turns rising from its belly. Over its lip, half open to allow free airflow, Maxwell could see the hint of spines rising, then lowering in the shadow of the tins lid, and for a brief moment there was a flash as the Mudfish withered upwards, mouth agape and bulging yellow eyes wide, open to the world, before the fish flopped back down into the tins waters, once more among the others caught alongside it.

Maxwell scowled at it, eyes still squinted, and then he carefully, slowly hauled himself to his feet, easy on his injured arm and the spotted, dotted but not soaked through bandaging atop the wound. It only took a moment to amble his unsteady way over, take the twisted lid handle in hand, and close the tin shut, nice and firm.

Webber twittered, head tilted in an unaired question, still turning that blasted lever, but Maxwell just heaved a sigh, raised his head to have a look about the horizon.

"Better than I was, dear. How long was I...out…" He trailed off, squinting at the sky, the duller, warmer colors, the hint of a cold breeze a bit more noticable atop the ocean's surface, and Webber answered without a hint of worry in their voice, right as rain with their salt shaken fur bristled in messy clumps about their face.

"A long time, Mister Maxwell! The sun's started to fall! When do you think Mister Wilson will be back up?" They chirped a spidery whistled tune, limbs waving as the crank squeaked and creaked from their steady turning. "We're getting kinda hungry! What do you think we'll have for dinner?"

They crooned, not noticing his silence, lost in their own thoughts as they leaned back atop the stool a moment and then shot back into leaning forward, mandibles held wide and waving. 

"Maybe Mister Warly will make that seafood soup stuff again! That was really yummy. Do you think we'll get back to camp before it gets dark? We got the lantern and Mister Wilson has his super special made one too, but we don't really wanna sail in the dark…"

Their voice trailed, pent up conversation waiting for him to wake up finally petering out, and Maxwell blinked, stared at the sky in its evening before turning his gaze to the spider child behind him, twittering and looking up at him with all those synchronized blinking pairs.

"...It's called seafood gumbo, Webber, and yes, we will be heading back very soon." His schooled voice didn't let a thing slip past, allowed Webber a relief from the obvious worry that had started nagging on them, and they chirped up a whistled sigh, a spider smile stretching on their face. "Higgsbury should be back up here any minute now."

He shooed them away from the crank, which they gladly hopped away from, stretching their limbs and legs and spider pawed claws, twittered up a storm, and his sigh was heavy as he sat down upon this dreaded spot, clasped the lever once more in uninjured hand and started the steady, mind numbing task of twisting it around and around and around. The spider child went over to the tin, drifted by it and only gave him a brief little glance that he politely ignored as they opened the lid once more, allowed air flow, before they dragged the mat to it and sat down, peering in at the fish they had caught hours earlier. 

The Mudfish instead raised its head, splashed about at the disturbance, but all the child did was grin a spidery grin and wiggle their claws in the waters of the tin, brushing the large fish and accompanying small catches with gentle pets.

It was good that they had found something to amuse themself with, because Maxwell did not want to discuss the topic of Wilson's silence with them just yet. Better they be distracted for a little while longer than worry on how helpless the both of them were in this situation.

Maxwell turned his head away, looked out at the waters that pushed waves all about them, sprayed the surface of the boats wooden planks, sprayed Webbers thick fur and his worn out suit with salty water droplets, and he stared into the murk of the dark green blues, stared long and hard, and increasingly worried.

**Author's Note:**

> Started this last year, finally decided I wanted to write it out now.


End file.
